


the things he said

by oddjuly



Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Camping, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, Holding Hands, Late Night Conversations, Late at Night, Love Confessions, M/M, Movie Night, Public Hand Jobs, Secret Relationship, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-02 01:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11498472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddjuly/pseuds/oddjuly
Summary: a drabble series, following the "things you said" prompts, dedicated to my favorite ship of day6.





	1. at 1am

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first fic to fill the "kang younghyun | young k/kim wonpil" pairing tag and while it's exciting, y'all need to jump on the youngpil train because this ship is my otp and their dynamic is to die for, okay!? 
> 
> (p.s. tags are added with each chapter publication and no two drabbles are within the same universe/continued unless stated otherwise.)

He's stuck in the middle, trapped in a state of indecisive consciousness, as he lays in his sleeping bag, eyes glued to the flat roof of his shared mustard tent that was pathetically constructed within the hours of the afternoon. He listens, watches the rain gently pellet the tent, the wind swaying its nylon fabric to the soundtrack of breathy campground air. But in between the placid whispers and the quiet pitter-patter, there is Dowoon, puncturing Younghyun's introspection with heavy breaths and shallow snores that occur periodically, every other minute and thicker than the last; there is, however, a plus-side to the continuous flow of reflection and snoring.

So, he turns his head to the left, sees Wonpil's back turned toward him and kept soundlessly to himself (unlike Dowoon).

There are just about a million things he wants to do right now, the first one being to pack his things and return to the comfort of the suffocating city where he hoards his college assignments until the last minute and lives strictly off cheap burgers and vending machine chocolate bars. The second thing he wants to do is pinch Dowoon's nose, maybe laugh a little to himself when the guy wakes up in a frantic hurry, choking for the scent of petrichor. But the order of his list of wants serves no prominent significance because the only mental bullet-point that matters is the want to crawl into Wonpil's personal bubble, to pepper kisses to the back of his neck and shoulder, to wrap his arms around him and feel a hand holding his, clasping so tightly, so urgently; the only thing he _really_ wants to do is be with Wonpil.

And with Wonpil he is but it's a touch more complex than that, where unambiguously _being_ with him is something so elusive. So, he decides to play the blame game and can't find himself apologetic for being inane.

In his equation of love, there are three that are impossible to factor out. One, who manages to take every opportunity he can to insert his input, he likes to call Sungjin. Two, is Dowoon, the one attached to Wonpil's hip like they were born that way, the one who sometimes can't help himself from being a smudge too honest. And three, that's Jaehyung, who knows no boundaries and gave a shitty tent assignment.

 _They wouldn't understand_ , Younghyun thinks. They wouldn't understand that something that started off as a mistaken kiss turned into a mistaken night of "passion", which then lead to everything that finally felt right in his life. A part of him wants to reason that Sungjin and Jaehyung would know, in having experienced their distinguishable flirting and leeched denial, all of which dissolved into Jaehyung's boasted words of, "We're the new power couple."

Realistically speaking, though, Wonpil is practically shielded, kept locked in a castle, by the three that Younghyun is too worried to confess to.

But Wonpil, fuck, he is beautiful.

With the crinkle of his sleeping bag, Younghyun decides, screw it.

In the steady tickle of rain against the fabric of their tent and the echo of crickets somewhere in the distance, he tucks himself behind Wonpil as closely as he can, his breath faintly raising the hairs on the back of Wonpil's neck, and exhales a collective weight of worries to make room for certainty. And in response, he receives a groan, laced thickly with exhaustion and comfort.

"I can't sleep," he murmurs into Wonpil's ear.

As they adjust to one another in sync with the rhythmic wind, Younghyun's list of wants takes the blow, goes from just about a million to just about one that coexists as a need, something incredibly integral when Dowoon's snoring etches itself into his long term memory. But when Wonpil takes Younghyun's hand in his, presses a languidly chaste kiss to the back of his palm, all he can hear is Wonpil's ceaseless breaths alongside the rain that lulls him back to sleep with Younghyun shadowing him.

And now, there is one.


	2. through his teeth

"You want to what?" Wonpil questions, looking up at Younghyun who paces back and forth in the space between his hardly functioning television and the fading coffee table that is home to one too many pale halos. He scoots forward on the couch, almost at the edge, as if it'll provide some kind of clarification.

"Let's end this friends with benefits thing," Younghyun replies as he stops at full force in front of the television. He cards his fingers through his unkempt hair, scratches at the back of his head.

"I thought we were doing well like this."

But he has to oppose, has to object to all beliefs that Wonpil held so compactly, yet loosely, at the tip of his lips because he isn't well.

They had rules to respect and fulfill, an oath as Jaehyung coined it, and while Wonpil carried on without a skip or without so much as a wobble, Younghyun was tripping over himself, dizzy in the mess of himself that was all-too convoluted to renovate. All of those rules, he presumed he could sustain but wounded up dropping in accordance to the aftermath of a heart that wasn't meant to beat under these circumstances. It was all in good fuck just a few months beforehand, orgasming after every blowjob and whining because of overstimulation; and, at first, he didn't bat an eye at the sight of Wonpil dressing himself to depart, didn't bother to miss the rustic aroma of Wonpil's apartment every other fuck, but then his heart decided to revolt against the system and beat with a limp whenever Wonpil left without a kiss goodbye, or even when Wonpil didn't "accidentally" fall asleep while he laid paralyzed from a tremble.

And this was all the reason that Younghyun needed to call it quits, to save himself, and Wonpil, from a road untraveled. Even if it hurts, the rules were broken and thus, punishment ensues.

"If that's what you want, okay," Wonpil sighs, no manifestations of despair evident, and Younghyun hates how accommodating he is. "But," he continues with unadulterated curiosity, lips parted as he hesitates over his upcoming word, "Why?"

Now, Younghyun can't fault him for the question at hand but what can he say and how can he say it? Is he supposed to utter the godawful truth that he fell somewhere along the line and overlooked the possibility of packing a parachute? Is he supposed to admit that one of the rules in having a friend with benefits is not to cuddle and all he really wants to do is just that, with Wonpil? Is he supposed to confess that he has, one too many times, almost texted Wonpil in a proposal to only see each other exclusively? And for what, for the embodiment of his affection to flee at the disclosure?

But he can't bring himself to pitiful confession and would rather have Jaehyung smothering him with I told you so's. Instead, he takes the equivocal route and replies, "I just think this is the right thing to do."

Wonpil doesn't protest, hardly expresses any reaction, and allows his gaze to bore into Younghyun's currently spineless being that is immobile in front of his television. Rather than press further inquiries, Wonpil only nods with faintly pursed lips, standing with intentions to leave. And seeing him almost go, grabbing his jacket off the back of the kitchen island stool, makes Younghyun waver, gazing down to the vintage ivory flooring of his apartment as he wonders, is this really worth it?

When he catches a glimpse of Wonpil stalling his exit in between the kitchen and living room, jacket in hands and a nevertheless appreciative smile on his face, he breaks at last.

"I broke the rules," he mumbles under his breath, eyes still fixated on the floor beneath his worn-out socks where a hole tears itself next to his big toe.

"What?" Wonpil says with a squint of his eyes, not quite latching onto Younghyun's words.

"I broke the rules," he clarifies through clenched teeth and tilts his head back to drill his scrutiny into the ceiling, where dust accumulates on his ceiling fan and a hook exists without anything to depend on it. "I like you."

He doesn't have to look at Wonpil to know that he's overtly dumbstruck, choking on a response that hasn't assembled in his brain just yet, still holding onto his jacket tightly when all Younghyun wants him to do is hold onto him tightly, to reciprocate and bask in mutual affinity. But reality tends to work in opposition to what he wants, always functioning in sync with catastrophe; and the star-crossed reality of the situation at hand is that Wonpil can only offer a compassionate smile, trudging to the front door wishing he could offer something in conciliation but is only left with the responsibility of having broken someone's heart. And out of everything else he could have possibly said, none of them would have appeased Younghyun, so he leaves with five piercing words of:

"I had a good time," because, at the end of the day, he can't force what isn't there.

Not yet, at least.


	3. too quietly

Wonpil has a profusion of fantasies, just as everyone else that experiences sexual attraction—all of which he dreams to put into play with Younghyun and some, he already has.

Now, he doesn't dub his kinks and fetishes and reveries as extraordinarily perilous, rather intimate between two people that trust each other with pressing matters such as the given. His personal preference doesn't lie within the confines of voyeurism or bloodplay or watersports, and he's even taken online quizzes to sort his delights, but they instead rest within something more tight-lipped and taciturn and just a smudge outlandish. Some, those whom he'd felt comfortable to confess to, say he's nothing more than the traditional "vanilla," but he'll take the other descriptive road because if there's anything he'd use to characterize himself as, it is the timid exhibitionist of sorts (but with limits).

On one occasion, under his request, Younghyun had agreed to take the liberty of touching him in the back of the cab on their way home from a movie; although, Younghyun's apprehension nearly blew their cover and each time inklings were transparent and more or less tangible in the stuffy, congested cab ambience, Wonpil would reassure him to let himself go with a squeeze of Younghyun's upper thigh.

Time and time again after their undertake in the back of a cab, secretive exhibitionism became a sort of standard, ritualistic pastime. Like in the back of a restaurant while browsing the dessert menu, fingertips skirting up dress pants before they left, one of them with a blatant erection.

And, boy, does Wonpil thrive on the adrenaline that fuels his heart upon the possibility of being caught.

But, his limits, are stern and to be obeyed.

That is, unless he gives in.

Movie nights with his and Younghyun's mutual friends have become a commonplace, routinely decided to be held every other Saturday night over whatever food craving they may have at the given moment. Chinese takeout, pizza, buffalo wings, cake and ice cream—you name it. They'd all come to the agreement to avoid horror movies because, let's face it, Wonpil and Sungjin hate the jump scares; on the other hand, Jaehyung had requested the shunning of cliche romances, much like the movies that play on Hallmark ("Because we are men! Not wrinkly, old white ladies!"). Dowoon and Younghyun, however, were and are fine with just about anything, but the five of them found common ground in comedies and family films and action.

Tonight, in spite of that, they'd settled on a romantic comedy to appease Dowoon's recent heartbreak by nitpicking the lines and how unbearably offbeat the kisses are. And while Dowoon is enjoying himself, six drinks into the shitshow, Wonpil is not getting a kick out of the extravaganza.

It isn't because of the choice in entertainment and most definitely not because of Sungjin's imitations of the female lead; it's because of Younghyun, who Wonpil cuddles close to beneath a blanket on the love seat in their shared apartment.

They aren't in a state of bitter resentment—they hardly ever have moments like those—but it's the predicament of wrong timing and testing the others' limits because some five to ten minutes ago, Younghyun decided it to be a dexterous idea to slip his hand under the waistband of Wonpil's sweats (and Wonpil wishes he'd decided to sport underwear tonight).

And those limits?

This is it.

When around close friends, or even family, touching each other as such is strictly prohibited in order to evade wary glances and the potentiality of social mortification. Younghyun understood those rules, too, but Wonpil is only left with the notion that his boyfriend shrugged it off this time around and opted to bite the bullet. But what baffles Wonpil even more than Younghyun's selection in action, is the contentment that bubbles in sync with the increasing beat of his heart, pounding in both sexual gratification and agitation.

He keeps to his everyday behavior, or tries to, at least, his eyes sprinting between the television and Jaehyung and Sungjin, who perform as the heterosexual couple in the movie—hand in hand, concept of personal space shattered as they stand with their noses almost touching, whispering reiterations of the movie script to Dowoon, who sits on the couch in bouts of laughter. To keep himself exempt of suspicion, Wonpil laughs along, too, body taut in restricting the tremors and spasms that Younghyun is threatening to release. But while he chuckles and giggles and cackles and titters, there's a breath close to his ear, hot and rousing and permissive. It gives him the briefest of instruction, elementary and complex.

"Come," Younghyun whispers all too quietly.

And somewhere in between Jaehyung and Sungjin kissing by impulse, resulting in a sulking Dowoon, Wonpil comes, curls his toes and balls his fists because that's all he _can_ do.

But he isn't particularly done, feels a degree of inadequacy; and what that is is the desperate longing to switch things up in retaliation, to have Younghyun on his knees in bed while the air around them grows thick and amorous.

But first things first, he has to get the three goons out of their apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna be That Person and give myself a brief self promo;
> 
> if you're interested, you can follow me on [tumblr](http://oddjuly.tumblr.com), where you can talk to me about anything (whether it be my writing or anything else). so yeah, that's that, and I hope you enjoyed this nsfw drabble ;)


	4. over the phone

Sixteen weeks.

After sixteen weeks, he stands expectantly at the cash register of the cafe some miles off campus.

Younghyun can't remember the last time he'd ever put so much thought into getting someone's phone number, considering he'd never worried like this before. With his nature that allows him the capacity to be easygoing, maintaining a phlegmatic approach, the joys of flirting and asking for numbers and nights out on the town have typically come natural for him. Until now, that is, as the cashier puts in his order—"the usual" alongside a blueberry muffin—, and Younghyun is left to tap the pads of his fingers on the edge of the counter, hoping that the sound of college students typing on their laptops at tables behind him can pacify his worries. But despite the quick typing fingers that could work magic with their significant others, his heart still beats roughly against his chest, and he hopes it isn't manifested.

"That'll be $6.57."

He exhales through his nose as he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, praying to everything above him that his fingers don't waver and tragedy does not strike. Because no matter how occupied everyone else is with their assignments or routinely work, everyone will ogle if he drops his coins on the floor, every ring and ping and ting working itself into his nightmares and worst fears.

Thankfully, however, the stars align with his hopes as he hands the cashier his payment.

But now, it's time for the real test.

"Hey, Jaehyung," Younghyun says in between fits of clearing his throat.

Jaehyung looks up, pausing in the middle of writing Younghyun's name on his cup. The way he looks at him, it's comfortable and laid-back and a tad too (terrifyingly) focused; it makes Younghyun wonder how a dude can have a face so soft with a stare so domineering. Maybe it's the height that's got him on eggshells. Yeah, that's got to be it.

"Bro, are you okay?" Jaehyung questions, squints his eyes as he lowers the cup and Sharpie to get a better look at Younghyun. "Can't have you dying during my shift. They don't pay me enough for that."

He smiles, anxieties drifting away with the tug of his cheeks, appreciative of Jaehyung's fluent humor. And when he sees Jaehyung crack a thin smile as well, fractionally cautious for any signs of, well, impending death, he takes a deep breath in, steadying himself on a trap he'd set up himself, one he hadn't gotten around to testing before use. But he wants to keep a favorable outlook, hopes this is like all the times he'd passed tests without studying; except, this test is more like swimming deep in the ocean, hoping that nothing will sting or bite him.

When the shop bell rings, someone new comes in, someone that Jaehyung sends courteous greetings to, someone that stands behind Younghyun, waiting to be next to order. He gulps at the thought that coerces him to just get the guy's number already, to not keep the customer behind him waiting for what could be centuries while he tries to locate the placid confidence he'd once had beforehand. With Jaehyung's eyes back on him, however, he finally concedes, accessorizes his apprehension with the faintest of smiles and a proposal of sorts.

"Could I get your number?" he asks, and Jaehyung's colorless expression turns to vague stupefaction. "I mean, so I can maybe ask you out sometime."

Jaehyung peers behind Younghyun, making it obvious that the bystander of a customer heard the trial clearly. Quickly, his eyes snap back, his attention wholly on Younghyun and the weight of a reply stuck in his throat.

With an offbeat laugh to ease the air, he responds, "Yeah, totally," and takes the Sharpie to the cup, first completes Younghyun's name and scribbles his number beneath it. "Coffee'll be ready in a bit. I'll get your muffin."

 

_**& &** _

 

Younghyun's had his fair share of successes, idolized by his family and safely kept as trophies and certificates and awards; he's even considered to be superhuman among his social circle at his university, the foundation of blooming envy because, "How the fuck do you get perfect grades when you do _nothing_?" And while, yes, those compliments and declarations of jealousy have earned a smile, a "thanks," they cannot compete with the sensation of success that came with acquiring Jaehyung's number. Because as he paces in his bedroom with a grin on his face—one that hasn't waned since earlier that afternoon—, he realizes that nothing has ever felt so exceptional, so fulfilling, so unthinkable, and this type of satisfaction can't slip from his grip.

But satisfaction, it actually is slipping from his grip.

His hands sweat, a tic of zing, while he holds his phone in one hand and his empty coffee cup in the other. And on that plastic cup, still there to remind him of the reality of his efforts, is his name, a number, and a smiley face—glasses included.

_Cute._

And here, sitting on his squeaky twin bed, he finds his confidence dwindling, even more minute than that of earlier. He'd overlooked the possibility of any additional hurdles, completely eradicated the likelihood of another challenge that stares back at him in the form of ten numbers, an asterisk, a pound sign, and a green call button. With Jaehyung's number typed in, his thumb hovering over the call circle, he realizes, what the fuck is he supposed to say? And, really, he should be considering his options, vocalizing his lines before entering the stage, but all he can bring himself to do is stare at his poster laminated walls and wish that, maybe, One Republic could give him a hand.

He bends his thumb, loosening its twitch as it hovers over his phone screen.

But catastrophe attacks.

He accidentally hit the call button.

It's too late to back down, especially too late when he hears the first ring echo louder than his pounding heart, knowing that Jaehyung's phone is ringing right at this moment; and in any second, he'll pick up his—.

"Hello?"

There's a pause, reluctance congested in the air, before Younghyun clears his throat.

"Is this Jaehyung?" he asks, checking that he entered the number correctly when it finally dawns on him that the voice that said _hello_ definitely isn't Jaehyung's.

"No. I think you have the wrong number," the person laughs nervously, a little throaty and a little sweet.

"Here, let me read the number I have. Make sure it's right."

And he reads, deliberately as he listens to the affirming hums on the other line. When he finishes, it's made clear that this number is, indeed, the one he'd read off the cup, and he furrows his eyebrows.

As dishes rattle from the other end, he rubs the pad of his middle finger between his eyebrows, mulls over the underlying truth that he wishes isn't the case: Jaehyung had given him a fake number, a number that belongs to someone neither of them know, a number that bawls rejection like no other and this, this must be what failure tastes like. Bitter coffee, a dry mouth, and a stale blueberry muffin. This is levels upon levels worse than failing a midterm, worse than coming in second place at his high school talent show, because isolated humiliation and secondhand embarrassment from the innocently called bystander cannot be challenged. He'd never seen it coming, too, while blinded by prosperity and hurried words because another customer was behind him, waiting.

"Hello?" the voice calls again, snapping Younghyun out of being slapped in the face.

"Yeah?"

"Did someone give you a fake number?"

He heaves a heavyweight chuckle, almost like he'd come back from a long war (and he had, within himself), and confesses, "Guess so. Listen, I'm sorry about this. I'll let you go now."

A part of him stalls to end the call, somehow feeling a fragment of consolation in the quiet and periodic white noise. So, his thumb hovers over the screen again, faltering under the pressure of the end call button only to be met with himself and his mortification. But before he ends the call, the voice at the other end speaks again.

"You okay?"

Is he? No. Unfortunately not. But, nevertheless, he cracks a crooked smile, looks down at the cup that's loose in his damp palms, replies, "Yeah."


	5. didn't say at all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in continuation of chapter two, "through his teeth."

He heaves a sigh, pulls himself away from hours worth of procrastinating and willpower, joints in his fingers stiff from being wrapped firmly around a pencil. A part of him is relieved that someone's at the door to rip him away from the work he doesn't want to do in the first place, even if momentarily, even for just a fragment of, "Would you like to buy some cookies?" So, with the crack of his spine and the outstretch of his limbs, he trudges to the front door, the bell ringing once, twice, thrice more. And thinking about it, this isn't some stranger here to advertise or sell a product or convince him to go to church; this has to be someone he knows, telling by the total rings that have echoed through his apartment. Maybe it's Jaehyung.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he calls as the bell continues to ring, sliding his sock covered feet across his wood floors.

Without bothering to check the peephole, he unlocks the door, jerks it open, and is left with remnants of feelings he didn't particularly want to revisit tonight of all nights. And here he is, left with the aftereffects of whiplash, uncertain if his mind is playing a trick on him, which sounds probable when he's dedicated half of his day to his studies and rewriting his sloppy lecture notes.

But no, as he blinks to make sure his eyes aren't playing games, this is the hapless reality, where Wonpil stands in front of him with parted lips.

He isn't sure of what to say, how to say it, and when to say it, because they hadn't done much talking after Younghyun decided to call it quits. One part of him wants to thank the Gods that he's back and another part wants to ask why while another wants to say nothing at all in fear of somehow screwing it up.

So, instead, he stands there, stares at Wonpil who stares right back until there is no space, no concept of introductory expressions, no words—because, here they are, lips to lips and speaking the words that neither Wonpil or Younghyun could say.

And for a second, Younghyun wants to ask, maybe bring it to the surface that wasn't Wonpil seeing someone in the recent weeks? But with logical reasoning, he must've called it off because this, whatever this is, isn't Wonpil's thing—the whole spiel of cheating, he means. Regardless of all external matters, Younghyun can't help but smile, just a fragment of a smile, into the kiss, and sigh against Wonpil's lips that move chaotically in sync with his as if to say, "I missed you, I missed you, I missed you," and he can't bother to care how anguished it may sound in his head because Wonpil is kissing him, open mouthed and longing and creating a fire in the pit of his stomach. And when he thinks about it, he doesn't think anything else has ever tasted so good on his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short one of 504 words but I hope it's still just as good as the others. anyway, how about another good ol' self promo? I'd left my tumblr in the end notes of another chapter but here I am, doing it again lol
> 
> if you ever wanna talk to me about my fics/wips or youngpil or anything, really, you can send me asks on [tumblr](http://oddjuly.tumblr.com) (which is where I spend a lot of my time, if I'm being completely honest lol).
> 
> see ya on the next drabble!


	6. under the stars and in the grass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I need you to understand something. I wrote this for you. I wrote this for you and only you. Everyone else who reads it, doesn't get it. They may think they get it, but they don't. This is the sign you've been looking for. You were meant to read these words." — Iain S. Thomas

It's silent between the two of them for the time being, where they can clearly make out the sound of each cricket hiding in the grass they sit on. All Wonpil can hear is the delicate gust of wind and the sound of cars passing in the distance, but he isn't focusing on the hush of those noises, finding himself lost in the way Younghyun breathes in and out, heavy at times to release the pressure of expectations.

For weeks, they hadn't seen each other and haven't exchanged more than a handful of brief texts in between skipping nights when Younghyun couldn't sleep and wanted to smile before bed. For those weeks, Wonpil kept to himself, rereading the exchange of words that might mean something, although neither of them explicitly admitted to the connotations. And in those quiet weeks, he would read over the words that shyly said to him, "just thinking of our conversation last night," or, "I really want someone to hold me. Preferably you." But now, they're side-by-side, knees knocking into the other, subtleties begging to be noticed and exchanged for something greater.

"Ah," Younghyun exhales, the softest of smiles pulling at his cheeks as he says, "I really needed this."

Wonpil faintly grins at the stars, playing an innocent game of connect the dots while he processes the way Younghyun's shoulder is touching his, the both of them pretending like they don't notice. But Wonpil does; he notices the way it feels, prickling at his skin as if to beg for another "accidental" brush. And he only hopes Younghyun is thinking the same thing.

As a gentle wind passes them by, tickles their skin and tousles fragments of their hair, Wonpil sneaks a glance at Younghyun, feels heavy weights in his chest lift upon seeing the way the boy next to him looks in the moonlight: tranquil and otherworldly. He tries not to smile, not wanting to give himself away just yet, but in a failed attempt, rolls his lips into his mouth and forgets that his eyes give him away completely. So, with a sigh, he lays back, grass tickling the back of his neck as he gazes up at the stars once more. And the stars—they sigh in unison.

He feels silly, to say the least, in having fallen without any intention to do so. He can't even accurately recall the moment that things shifted for the better, when casual conversation morphed into obvious blushing and attempts at flirty hints and wondering if, maybe, this isn't something he'd made up and felt on his own. But there was something, all in the confessions of how horror movies would be watched (or not, because, "I'd spend more time looking at you than watching the actual movie") and giving nicknames in hopes it might say what they can't frankly admit. And it wasn't just him that considered a reciprocated reality but also his friend circle outside of Younghyun, each and every one of them encouraging him to say it, to finally tell Younghyun, "I like you." But it isn't necessarily that simple when rejection and discordance are daunting possibilities.

While he nibbles on his bottom lip to keep himself from grinning like the fool he is, Younghyun lays down next to him, shoulder to shoulder and knuckles grazing the others. And Wonpil thinks, Younghyun is out for him.

But as Wonpil feels the way Younghyun's fingers hesitate in motion, the chirping of crickets intensify, quicker in pace, louder than the hush of wind, and competing with the rate at which his heart sinks wonderfully in his chest. For a moment, he closes his eyes to feel Younghyun's knuckles knocking against his delicately, brushing against his skin with a motive before there are pads of fingertips in his palm, tracing their way down. So, he opens his eyes, observes the way Younghyun interlaces their fingers, squeezes daintily to the diminuendo of chirping and the pacification of emotions that steadies into a cozy haze.

Younghyun doesn't say anything, lets his actions speak the volumes for him in the way he holds Wonpil's hand, while Wonpil—he finally knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "i guess we're actually youngpil now"


	7. while we were driving

The first time he says it, Wonpil misses it by a heartbeat and a half, caught off guard by its spontaneity. It’s that first time he says it when Wonpil has to make sure he’d heard correctly in preparation to keep it lodged in a delicately safe place in his heart.

The first time he says it, Wonpil asks Younghyun to repeat himself.

“Do you ever think about running away together?” Younghyun asks, eyes still fixated on the road and the sunset in front of them.

Younghyun’s car smells like fast food and laughter, all after an afternoon’s worth of spending time with their mutual friend group. There are a few stray movie ticket stubs in the backseat, likely to have fallen out of Dowoon’s pocket—a man known for involuntarily misplacing his things—alongside Sungjin’s forgotten wallet, pristine and leather full of cash and photos of his closest friends. For a guy who’s occasionally hard to read and likes to joke around about unfriending Wonpil when he calls him a bear, Sungjin tends keeps his favorite delicacies in quite a few obvious places. It’s sweet.

But Younghyun’s car, although having traces of their friends, is adorned with tidbits of himself. Like the guitar picks in his center console, for just in case. Or the coupons in his glove box for his favorite food places. Or the constant lingering scent of his favorite cologne, the one that Wonpil’s starting to smell on his clothes a lot more often. And the best one yet: himself, sitting patiently in the driver’s seat, both hands on the wheel, fingers tapping along to the tempo of the faint song on the radio every now and then.

Wonpil looks at him and sees a gentle smile on Younghyun’s face, something like a smile when lost in pleasing thought. He has so much to say in response but is beat to the next word by a ramble or two.

“Like, sometimes I think about packing my bags and knocking at your door like Prince Charming or something. And we’d just leave. Maybe we’d go to Jeju. Maybe Paris. And sometimes when we have no money, we’d sleep in the back of this crappy car. And we could kiss on the beach or in Times Square and make new friends everywhere we went. It sounds stupid but I think about that a lot. Do you?”

He smiles, looks out at the busy road in front of them, and continues with a fantasy that he hopes will make Younghyun smile.

“Maybe London, too. And Amsterdam and Copenhagen. Wouldn’t it be funny, too,” Wonpil laughs, just barely getting the remainder of his sentence out, “if we made up new names for ourselves? Something plain, like Brian.”

“Brian,” Younghyun repeats with a nod of approval. “I kinda like that.”

“And we’d live these fake lives that are really ours and taste different foods and talk on balconies.”

Just thinking about it, Wonpil can feel themselves there, all over world, hand in hand as they discover secrets everywhere they go and leave their mark on people they may never talk to again. He can feel waking up in cheap motels or just barely managing to stay at a decent hotel in Paris where they’d be in bed all night and the balcony all morning with coffee. He can feel playing on the beach and getting sand in his hair and piggybacking Younghyun in the water. He can feel running low on money but not caring because he’s with someone he cares about and loves and would be happy to go to their last resort. And just for a moment, it’s almost like they’d lived through the whole trip right here in Younghyun’s car through some kind of shared conscience.

They’re quiet for a moment.

“Jae would hate us if we left,” Younghyun says with an airy laugh.

“And I think Sungjin would hate me for leaving Dowoon with him,” Wonpil adds.

“Yeah, Dowoon can barely take care of himself.”

“He’ll have to learn.”

He’ll have to learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said i was done with this drabble series and i know it's been a while since i've been here but heyo! to give a little explanation as to where i've been and what's been going on:
> 
> i stopped writing fanfiction just a short while after i thought i was done with this series. not that i didn't enjoy writing it because i did and i still do but because i wanted to try focusing on original work, since i want to be an author but hadn't written anything original. not only that but i'd also fallen out of the kpop loop for a couple months. long story short: i watched call me by your name, fell in love with it and timothée chalamet, and decided to make a stan twt account for them. i'm still using that stan account but made a very very very small amount of kpop stan mutuals who also are also cmbyn/timmy stans as well, who sparked my fizzled out interest in kpop again. i've missed a lot of day6 and bts things since december up till now and "rejoining" the fandom is intimidating lol so now i'm here because i missed day6 more than anything in the world and missed youngpil and missed writing/reading fanfiction. so yeah. i don't know if anyone's still around for this upload but if anyone is, i really really really hope this doesn't disappoint.
> 
> anyway, if you're maybe interested in keeping up with me, you can find me on aforementioned stan twt acc ([cremajunction](http://twitter.com/cremajunction)).


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